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Do You 

Believe 

in 

Fairies? 

Leonora de Lima Andrews 

•• 


Literary Commodities 

25 West 43rd Street 
Netf York, - . N. Y. 



Copyrighted 1924 
by 

Literary Commodities 


TABLE OF CONTENTS 

The Little Girl. 7 

To Please Eight and a Half. 11 

The Music Charm. 16 

The Tale of the Fretful Child. 17 

Ballade for Believers in Fairies. 26 

The Revenge of Gobble-me-up. 28 

The Piper. 35 

Richard the Lion-Hearted . 37 

Daughter-Goose Rhymes . 40 

Beauty and the Beach. 43 

Sensations of Swinburning . 46 

Day Dreams . 47 

Rain in the City at Night. 48 

Christmas . 49 

Romantic Adventure into Religion. 50 

Sunday . 58 

New Year’s Day . 59 

Silence . 60 

Bluffing. 61 

The Delicatessen Shop . 62 

Listening In . 63 

Mt. Riga Road . 64 

Rain . 65 

Growing Pains . 66 


























Adolescence . 68 

To.. 69 

Fragment . 69 

To Marie . 70 

Freudianisms . 72 

The Old Man Speaks . 74 

Ballade for Moralists . 75 

Heaven at Last . 77 

The Future . 78 











DO YOU BELIEVE IN FAIRIES 

(A book of fantasy for grown-up children) 



THE LITTLE GIRL 


The little girl ran and ran and let the wind 
blow her hair until it stood out behind her as 
though it were wired. The air was so clear 
and blue that she thought: “If I jump a little 
I will land on the top of that mountain over 
there.” 

But she didn’t jump. It would have been 
taking a mean advantage of the mountain, 
she thought. She would just fly up the side 
of it, much as she was flying along the road 
now. And when she had gotten to the 
very topmost part, she would not deign 
to look down upon all the silly people in the 
valley—the people who just went on working, 
and didn’t have the sense to shout with joy 
because the sun was shining. She would 
reach up her hand, and feel the little fleecy 
cloud that was sitting so still and quiet, way 
up there. She would squash it between her 
fingers to see if it was wet or dry. And if it 
was dry, she would wrap it around her, to 
keep it warm forever, and would spend the rest 
of her days trying to catch, in a rose-colored 
bottle, the cold wind that went rushing past. 


[ 7 ] 


And so the little girl ran and ran. 

The wind whistled at her speed. The dewy 
grass kissed her feet, and the cows in the 
meadows yawned as she passed. 

Then she stumbled. A round smooth rock 
had rolled across her path: a granite rock, with 
specks that twinkled like bad men’s eyes. It 
was an orthodox rock—the sort that rarely 
rolled from its ledge. It growled: 

“Look at this astounding young person’s 
behavior on a Sunday! The idea! A gentle¬ 
man and a preacher should put an end to such 
goings-on.” 

And so the smooth stone rolled in her path¬ 
way, and she stumbled and fell over it. 

A discreet silence had settled over the coun¬ 
tryside, just as though all the fields were on 
their best behavior. The rows and rows of 
conscientiously trained beets and onions drew 
themselves up in the pride of their posture. 
They too are very orthodox. They look down 
upon those of their vegetable brethren who 
have allowed themselves to be blown away 
from the straight and narrow path while still 
in the seed stage. It is fair, in a kingdom of 
stones, that these should do penance by eternal 


excommunication from the pale. And thus 
pondering, in pious disgust, the beets and car¬ 
rots were spending their Sunday. 

The truant asparagus, long since reformed 
from rigid rows, was glorifying heaven in its 
own sweet way. It sprawled over the edge of 
its patch, as though to cover as much of the 
earth as possible—to be as near to her as possi¬ 
ble. It does her honor, by dressing up in 
feathery finery to adorn her. It even catches 
the dew-drops, and rogueishly uses them as 
pearls; for it makes its religion a perpetual 
pageant to glorify nature, and it scorns the 
priggish severity of the onion elders who have 
carefully stored up all their dew, for the culti¬ 
vation of orthopedic roots. 

These were the extremes of the vegetable 
Sunday behavior, and they are interspersed 
with just such in between stages as the mea¬ 
dows show,—a sort of tired business man-ish 
relief from the droning haying machines, and 
the hard cobble-stone wall. 

Over the vegetable kingdom the round 
stones rule in their smooth sly fashion, ap¬ 
pearing in the furrows to retard the busy har- 
rower in his task, and censoring the human 
children’s play. 


[ 9 ] 


But past them all the Little Girl ran, laugh¬ 
ing at the wind, brushing off the dirt that 
spotted her starched dress, and forgetting all 
about her bruises and scratches. On and on 
she ran, her eye fixed on the fleecy white cloud, 
her heart aching to fondle it, and her legs 
tireless in their never-ending race for the stars. 


TO PLEASE EIGHT AND A HALF 


First of all there was Mildred, who was 
eleven, and quite sedate. Then there were the 
twins, Eveline and Madeline, who were eight 
and a half and eight and a half and ten min¬ 
utes old, respectively, and who liked stories. 

“Can you tell ’em?” Madeline inquired 
anxiously. She was curled up in my lap, and 
when she spoke she wrinkled up her nose in 
a funny little way that hid the one freckle on 
its tip that was the only means of distinguish¬ 
ing her from Eveline. 

“Ell try,” I offered. 

“Make it about goblins, please,” ordered 
Madeline. 

“And fairies”, Eveline added. 

“And real people, too,” suggested Mildred 
who was, as I said, eleven, and almost beyond 
fairies, which was rather a pity. 

“Once upon a time” I started, and paused. 
A grown-up had interrupted us with some 
foolish grown-up question. 

“Once upon a time,” again I began. 

“You said that before,” objected Eveline. 

“Yes’m,” accused Madeline. 


[ 11 ] 


“—Many, many years ago, there was a big 
forest, bigger than any you have ever seen. ,, 

“’Scuse me, Ma’am, I know where there is a 
biggest forest.” 

“Well, this was even bigger,” I insisted. “So 
big, in fact, that the leaves were as large as— 
as the flowers on that chair ” I finished point¬ 
ing to the exaggerated tapestry on the furni¬ 
ture. 

“Now at the edge of the woods there was a 
little village, where a blacksmith lived, with 
his only daughter, Hope. 

One day he sent Hope out into the forest to 
pick berries. As she went into the woods, by 
the little path which led from her house, there 
hopped out on it a little bunny—like the ones 
in the park, you know, excepting that this one 
had two tails. ” 

(“Why?” asked Madeline. 

“To clean out his house with, of course,” 
explained Mildred.) 

“Now, although Hope had walked in the 
forest ever since she was a little girl, she had 
never, never seen a bunny with two tails. So 
she followed this one. Further and further 


[ 12 ] 


she went, and darker and darker it grew, but 
Hope did not notice this, for she was too busy 
watching Mr. Two-tails. 

Suddenly he disappeared, and left her stand¬ 
ing in front of a great, green-grey stone. It 
was very dark, and poor Hope was very much 
frightened. I would have been, too. Wouldn’t 
you?” 

Three heads bobbed up and down energeti¬ 
cally, and three pairs of eyes opened very 
wide. 

“But she was a sensible little girl, and knew 
that the good fairies would help her. So she 
knocked on the stone. There started a whir¬ 
ring noise, as of wings. 

“Say the magic word, and tell me your 
name” sang a silvery voice. 

“Hope,” said the little girl. 

At this the stone opened, and she went into 
a beautiful little room, all lighted with fireflies 
and glow-worms. On the floor sat a fairy, busy 
mending a butterfly’s broken wing. 

‘Do you live here all alone?’ asked Hope, 
as she drank honey and dew-drops which the 
busy ants had brought her. 


[ 13 ] 


“Yes,” sighed the fairy sadly. “I used to 
live with the forest goblins—” 

“But they are bad,” interrupted Hope. 
“Father has told me stories about them.” 

“Not bad!” reproved the fairy “but they did 
not like me to help the wood-land folks. They 
made me come here, and said they would keep 
every one from seeing me. Nobody can enter 
without the pass-word, Hope. And I cannot 
be free until a prince comes to sing to me.” 

“The next morning the blacksmith awoke, 
and called Hope to him, but of course she did 
not come. He was very much frightened and 
called out all the village folk to help look for 
her. Then a strange thing happened. The 
blacksmith looked at the wall of his hut, and 
saw a message appear in letters of gold which 
said, ‘Whosoever shall find Hope shall be made 
by the fairies a Prince, and shall be given a 
beauteous castle/ 

“The villagers started out, and with them a 
little apprentice lad searched too. Now, of 
course, the goblins kept every one away from 
the great green-grey stone, but in spite of all 
the goblin’s enchantments the apprentice lad 
came to the house of the fairy, because he had 


[ 14 ] 


followed a little two-tailed bunny. And when 
he got there he was so happy he just sang, and 
sang, and as he sang his coarse village clothes 
fell off him and the royal robes of a Prince ap¬ 
peared in their place. 

“And so he took Hope back to the village 
with him, and the fairy flew out, singing and 
happy to be free. At the village there was 
great rejoicing, and they feasted at the Prince’s 
palace for a month and a day.” 

“Didn’t they get sick?” inquired Mildred. 

“And a few years later they were married” 

“And lived happily ever after? asked Eve¬ 
line, anxiously. 

“And lived happily ever after!” I assured 
them. 


[ 15 ] 


THE MUSIC CHARM 
(A Tiny Tot Rhyme) 

When the great man came to play 
He didn’t chase me far away, 

But let me stand beside him so 
That I could watch his fingers go. 

I never, never saw him make 
The very tiniest mistake. . . . 

And, say, I saw that player look 
At his ten fingers, and the book 
At once! So I knew there must be 
Some trick that he had hid from me! 

And maybe, when he’d gone away 

The spell that brought the tunes would stay 

So when I felt that nobody 
Was bothering to notice me, 

I looked about that piano 
Inside and outside, high and low, 

To find that music. Timidly 
I pressed each finger on a key; 

Ma said it didn’t sound the same . . . 

It sounded queer and sounded lame, 

But I don’t care, because some day 
I’ll make him charm it so’s to stay! 

And then maybe I’ll sit and look 
At my ten fingers and the book! 


[ 16 ] 


THE TALE OF 
THE FRETFUL CHILD 

There lived once upon a time, in the Land 
of Grown-ups, a very little boy. As soon as he 
was old enough to cry, which was when he was 
very young indeed, he began to cry for an 
adventure. But he always cried for it in baby- 
talk, which Grown-ups cannot understand be¬ 
cause they have forgotten it; and so nobody 
knew what he wanted. They gave him milk, 
and they spanked him. They sang to him and 
they rocked him, and they even showed him 
how the wheels in Daddy’s watch go round. 
But they did not give him an adventure, and 
so he kept right on crying, until bye and bye 
he came to be known as That Fretful Child, 
and everyone hated his parents. 

Now there is only one person in all Grown¬ 
up Land who understands baby talk, and that 
is the Oldest Woman in the World. People 
say that she understands it only because she is 
so old that she has learned everything there is 
to know and is going back to begin all over 
again. And, since she is as wise as she is old, 
and equally as gossipy, she soon heard every¬ 
one talking about That Fretful Child. 


She suspected that the baby wanted some¬ 
thing very badly, and that that something was 
neither warm milk, nor a spanking, nor the 
wheels in Daddy’s watch. And she decided to 
find out what it was that he did want. 

So she put on her grey cobweb scarf, which 
makes her invisible, and climbed up the handle 
of her carpet sweeper, for she is a very modern 
Old Woman indeed. She grasped the handle 
of her carpet sweeper, right where the shiny 
part ends, said a magic word, which I have 
forgotten, and Higgelley, piggelley, before you 
might say “I spy” three times without wink¬ 
ing, she was driving up to the home of the 
Fretful Child with a fearful clatter. 

Now the Fretful Child’s Mother was a reg¬ 
ular sort of a Mother, excepting that on Sun¬ 
day’s she always used silk handkerchiefs, em¬ 
broidered with storks, and folded in thirds, in¬ 
stead of the linen ones folded in quarters that 
she used every day. When she heard the 
noise, and saw the carpet-sweeper drive up to 
the door she became very much excited. 

“Look, Timothy,” she called to her husband, 
who is also the Baby’s Father, “Look at the 
carpet-sweeper I have found outside of the 


door.” In Grown-up Land, you see, carpet 
sweepers do not always wander about by them¬ 
selves. 

Timothy, however was not impressed. He 
only said “Un-huh”, and went on reading his 
newspaper. 

So the Fretful Child's Mother took in the 
carpet-sweeper, and put it next to the Baby's 
crib, for safe-keeping. Then, because the baby 
was crying very hard indeed, she hurried away 
to get him some warm milk, and left him alone 
to drink it, for she had learned by experience 
that he could not cry while he was doing this. 

When she had gone, the Oldest Woman 
hopped down from the carpet-sweeper, and 
took off her cobweb scarf, which made her vis¬ 
ible. Then she looked at the Fretful Child 
over her dark green spectacles, and said: 

“Google de Goo.” 

Now the Baby was so surprised to hear any¬ 
one besides himself speaking his language, that 
he stopped swallowing warm milk, right in 
the middle of a gulp, and simply stared. But, 
although this is generally considered very rude, 
the Oldest Woman paid no attention to it what- 


[ 19 ] 


soever, and instead went right on to say some¬ 
thing which translated means: 

“What are you crying for, anyway ?” 

By that time the Fretful Child had stopped 
staring, and had finished his warm milk, and 
was able to tell her that he wanted an adven¬ 
ture, and that he wanted it badly. 

Upon hearing this, the Oldest Woman be¬ 
came very serious indeed. She shook her head, 
and wiped away a tear which had settled on 
the rim of her green spectacles and was about 
to roll down her nose. Then she said: 

“Doodle de doo,” which, as all babies know, 
means “You are very young indeed, but I will 
do the best I can for you.” 

She told him that there are very few places 
where adventures still grow wild, for they have 
all been collected many years ago by a group 
of people called “Famous Persons”. However, 
she did know of one adventure tree that was 
just beginning to bear fruit. It was quite far 
away, but all that one needed to get there was 
a silk handkerchief embroidered with a stork. 
Now this was very fortunate indeed. For you 
see, the baby knew that once a week his Mother 
used to wipe his tears off with a silk handker- 


chief, and he remembered that something on it 
sometimes used to bite him. 

“It must have been a stork,” exclaimed the 
Oldest Woman, and at this she became so ex¬ 
cited that her eyes twinkled behind her green 
spectacles. 

In less time than it takes to tell about it, the 
baby was flying through the air on his Mother’s 
silk handkerchief, with his eyes tightly closed, 
and the Oldest Woman was astride a carpet 
sweeper. He could feel the wind blowing 
through his hair, and the stars snapping at him 
as he went whizzing past. All the time the 
Oldest Woman kept saying magic words, and 
telling him not to open his eyes whatever he 
did, so that it all sounded something like this: 
Hoity toity, keep them shut, 

Ali pali poo, 

Flutter, gutter, down he’ll clut 
Sniggle, snaggle yo-u-u-u-u 
O-o-o-o-w 
You-u-u-u-u 

And all the voices of the night owls and snap¬ 
ping stars echoed 

Y ou-u-u-u-u-u-u-U*U*U*U! 

Until the Fretful Child felt very pale indeed. 


[ 21 ] 


When at last the Oldest Woman told him 
that he might look, he found that they had 
flown all the way to Nowhereland. He knew 
it was Nowhereland, by all the Nothings stand¬ 
ing about. There were tall Nothings, and 
short Nothings, and fat Nothings, and thin 
Nothings, and they were all kept in order by 
Nobodies with grey dresses on. These No¬ 
bodies are very much like the people in Grown¬ 
up Land. Excepting that, as you will notice 
when you look at them very closely, their faces 
are made up entirely of cheeks. 

The Fretful Child stared about very hard 
indeed. Then, because he couldn’t see any ad¬ 
venture tree, he was just beginning to take a 
long breath in order to cry. But he stopped 
short, just as his face was beginning to turn 
from pink to purple. For, right in the midst 
of the Nobodies stood the most beautiful ad¬ 
venture tree you ever saw. Its pale blue 
branches were weighed down to the place 
where the ground would have been, if there 
had been a ground in Nowhereland. And from 
even the lowest branches there hung luscious 
adventures that were dark red, and just right 
for picking. All about lay others that the wind 


[ 22 ] 


had blown down, or that the Nobodies had 
picked, tasted, and thrown away. But they 
had missed the very best of all. And this was 
perfectly natural, when you stop to think that 
the Nobodies have no eyes, and their faces are 
made up entirely of cheeks. 

But the Fretful Child was not a Nobody. He 
had eyes. He saw the red adventures dangling 
there, and he squealed and crowed, and did all 
the things that fretful children never do. And 
then he picked one. 

Now it is strange to tell about, but as soon as 
the Fretful Child bit into that adventure, he 
stopped being a Fretful Child, and became a 
Regular Boy. Even his skin, at that very mo¬ 
ment forgot how to change from pink to 
purple, as it used to when he wanted to cry. 

When the Nobodies felt what he was doing, 
they became very angry indeed, and shouted 
Nonsense at him, and threw Nothings at him. 
But these did not hurt him much, and so he 
went right on eating his adventure. 

The adventure did not taste at all the way he 
thought it would, and it puckered his mouth 
all up. So he tried to hold his breath to make 
his face change from pink to purple, but it 


[ 23 ] 


wouldn’t do what he told it to. And then he 
knew that the adventure must have done some¬ 
thing to him. He was not sure, but he strong¬ 
ly suspected that it must have changed him in¬ 
to a Regular Boy. So he stopped crying, even 
before he had let out the tiniest bit of a sound, 
and he smiled all over instead. And thereupon 
the Nobodies, feeling that some thing just 
hadn’t happened, dropped their nothings on 
the spot. And a brand new adventure bloomed 
on the tree, where the one the Fretful Child 
had eaten hung. 

He squealed in glee, and looked around for 
the Oldest Woman, but as she was as wise as 
she was old, and equally as gossipy, she must 
have ridden away on her carpet-sweeper to tell 
her friends about it, for she was not to be 
found. 

Just as he was wondering where she could 
have gone to, he felt a tugging at his right 
arm. It was the embroidered stork. Without 
a minute’s delay he climbed upon the handker¬ 
chief, stuck out his tongue at the Nobodies, 
which shows that he was a Regular Boy, and, 
higgelley, piggelley, before you might say “I 
spy” three times without winking, he was back 
in his own little crib. 


His Mother was just coming to get the car¬ 
pet-sweeper, which she had left beside the crib, 
for, you see, in Grown-up Land time passes 
much more slowly than in Nowhere land. 
There was a great to-do when she found that it 
was gone, but just as she was growing very 
excited about this, she noticed that the Fretful 
Child had stopped crying, and this made her 
even more excited (but in a different way) so 
that she forgot all about the carpet-sweeper. 
She rushed in to tell Timothy, her husband 
about it; but he was reading the newspaper, 
and only said “Un-huh”. 

Soon all the neighbors came in to find out 
why That Fretful Child had stopped crying, 
and his Mother proudly told them that she had 
given him warm milk. 

Whereupon all the neighbors shook their 
heads and opened their mouths very wide, and 
went home to feed warm milk to their Fretful 
Children, as they have been doing ever since. 


[ 25 ] 


BALLADE FOR BELIEVERS 
IN FAIRIES 


All dressed up in our best we ride 
From Adam's Square and Harvard too 
And read the ads there for our guide 
To see what other people do; 

Or if a paper we glance through, 

At night time, when our curls we comb 
This lonesome thought our souls imbue 
“Have you a fairy in your home?" 

Or when the little folks decide 
To play a game of house, or two, 

And roles amongst them they divide 
John is papa, and mama's Sue . . . 

Alas the parts are far too few 
And those left out in anguish foam 

Till someone brings this thought anew 
“Have you a fairy in your home?" 

A poor stern father has denied 

To sweet sixteen a dress that's new, 
And sweet sixteen has vainly tried 
And valiantly her suit to sue 


[ 26 ] 


She sees her older dress must do 
Then finds it in a fashion tome 

Some thoughtful fairy brought to view 
“Have you a fairy in your home? ,, 

L’Envoi 

O, Pollyanna, here’s to you— 

I’ll greet you, if you chance to roam 
My way, and ask when I am blue 
“Have you a fairy in your home?” 


THE JUSTIFICATION AND 
REVENGE OF GOBBLE-ME-UP 


(A Story for Children with Appetites, 
and for Children Who Do Not Eat.) 

Once upon a time, in the days of long ago, 
when ogres and giants were as plentiful as 
policemen, and when the ocean was dotted 
with desert islands, there lived a Giant whose 
name was Gobble-me-up. As you may have 
guessed, he lived on one of these islands. All 
about him stretched ocean, and ocean, and 
more and more waves; but they didn’t bother 
him at all. He just lived there alone, and was 
very happy. 

He was a great, large, burly giant, who 
would have stood over six feet tall in his stock¬ 
ing feet, if he had worn stockings. He had 
round red cheeks, and dancing blue eyes, and 
his hair curled itself up into “irrepressible 
locks” just like your favorite hero’s. He was 
comfortably fat, and when he laughed he 
shook all over, just the way the dessert that 
we have on Sunday does. 

As I said, he was a very happy giant indeed, 
and he used to laugh and shake all over a 


[ 28 ] 


very great deal. You see, he never realized 
that he was all alone on his island, because he 
had never known what it would be like to 
have someone there to play with him. Every 
morning when he had finished his rhubarb, he 
used to walk along the seashore, dabbling his 
toes in the soapy waves, and singing: 

“Gobble-me-up is my name, 

A Happy Giant am I . . . 

And I always feel just the same . . . 

And HI sing this song till I die.” 

When he came to this point he would always 
whirl about on his left heel three times, and 
clap his hands above his head. 

Now at the particular moment when my 
story would be beginning if I hadn’t wasted 
all this time talking, Gobble-me-up was just 
setting out for his morning walk. He was 
tossing his head in the breeze ... it was the 
first day of Spring, you see . . . and he 
breathed in the ozone, and enjoyed it, because 
he didn’t know that it was ozone. And, ac¬ 
cording to his habit, he began to sing: 

“Gobble-me-up is my name. ...” 

[ 29 ] 


when all of a sudden three clams that were 
lying on the beach opened their shells very 
wide, and laughed, in perfect rhythm: 

“Ha! HA!! HA’!!!” 

Gobble-me-up looked about in surprise, and 
the clams continued to laugh in a way that was 
rude, even for clams. 

Then Gobble-me-up became very angry . . . 
no self-respecting Giant likes to be laughed at. 
He shook his curls at them, trying to look very 
fierce indeed. At last he sputtered: 

“WHAT do you 

Mean 

By 

Talking to 
ME 

Like that?” 

(He was so angry, you see, that he leaped 
into free verse, a thing which had always been 
against his principles.) 

When the clams had laughed until they 
could laugh no more, and had rolled over in 
the sand to wipe the perspiration off their 


[ 30 ] 


shells, the most imposing clam answered him. 

“Ha! ha!” she said (I am quite sure it was 
a “she”), “the idea of a giant who only eats 
rhubarb . . . he! he! . . . the idea of his being 
called Gobble-me-up!” 

At this all the other clams went off into 
wild gales of laughter, and snapped their shells 
to show how very funny they thought it was. 

Gobble-me-up was perplexed. He didn’t 
quite know what they meant. But they did 
not intend to leave him in any doubt about this. 
They explained immediately, interrupting 
each other, and acting in a way that was very 
rude indeed. 

They said that he ought to be a “very- 
cannibal-and-wear-a-red - sash-and - whiskers- 
and-eat-up-little-boys-and-girls” (they said it 
quickly, like that) and that he ought to go 
around muttering dreadful things like: 

“Fe, fi, fo, fum, 

I smell the blood of an Englishmun,” 

instead of reciting his silly little rhymes. 
They said that he should flourish a tomahawk, 
and dye his hair black, or at least train it to 
stand up on end. In fact they abused him hor- 


[ 31 ] 


ribly, telling him that he was ruining the time- 
honored reputation of the race of Giants. Any* 
Giant, they said, to be worthy of the name, 
should endeavor to represent all the Giants on 
every occasion. He, they said, was an unsatis¬ 
factory specimen, and therefore deserved to be 
squelched most effectively. This they felt to 
be their duty, and unpleasant though it was, it 
had to be done. 

After this last remark, they sighed sadly, 
and retired into their shells. 

From that moment on, Gobble-me-up was a 
changed giant. He hardly ever laughed, and 
when he sang his little song he put it in a 
minor key, which shows how very sad he was. 
Every morning he spoiled his rhubarb by 
weeping salty tears into it. 

He felt that he really must do something. 

He sat down on a log to think about it. He 
turned his toes inward so that they might con¬ 
sole each other. He dug his elbows hard into 
his knees, and held his forehead in his hands. 
Then he said to himself: 

“The clams win out, 

Without a doubt, 


[ 32 ] 


I've simply ruined my rep . . . 

I must fix this, 

Or else, I wis, 

I’ll have to get some pep.” 

This last thought seemed to appeal to him a 
great deal, even though the rhyme wasn't very 
good. 

But as he pondered it, he had a more awful 
thought. How could he act like a blood-thirsty 
Giant, and go about killing men, when he was 
the only creature that was anything like a man 
on the island? 

It was a most disturbing idea, and for three 
days it bothered him. He grew paler, and pro¬ 
portionately thinner. He did not weep into 
his rhubarb now, but left it strictly alone. 

And then he found a solution, and worked 
it out in a manner truly worthy of a Giant. 
This was what he did: 

One night, when the moon was hidden and 
the stars were yawning and dropping off to 
sleep, one by one, he crept out along the beach. 
Without a sound, he crept up behind the three 
sleeping clams. Stealthily he reached out his 
left hand, took the youngest by its little neck 


[ 33 ] 


and squashed it. Noiselessly he stretched out 
his right hand, and grasped the second one. 
And with a maddened shriek of triumph he 
grabbed up the last clam, before it could snap 
its shell at him. 

With an exalted countenance, he pranced 
up and down the beach, shouting his paean of 
victory, so that the stars stopped blinking, and 
the moon peered around the corner of a cloud 
to listen: 

“Gobble-me-up is my name, 

A Fearsome Giant am I, 

I’ve a dreadful awesome fame, 

Which nobody can deny . . . ! 
Gobble-me-up is my name, 

No Giant is madder than I . . . 

Ha! Ha!! Ha! Ha!! 

No Giant is madder than I!” 

Whereupon he sat down on his log, and, one 
by one he ate the clams. 

It didn’t matter at all that he had indiges¬ 
tion the next day. He knew that he really was 
an honest-to-goodness Giant, and the thought 
made him laugh and shake all over, just as he 
used to do in the good old days, before the 
clams had tried to disillusion him. 


[ 34 ] 


THE PIPER 


The valley is clad in a misty white fog, 

Where the Sun God dares not intrude, 

The hoots of the night owls have dulled and 
have died, 

And the whimpering night winds brood. 

Over the purple-topped rims of the earth, 
Riding a proud little breeze, 

Are tinkling pipings that whisper that Pan, 
Away from the haunts of humdrum man, 

Has led forth the day from the seas. . . . 
Dancing and prancing o’er grove and o’er hill, 
Rollicking, frolicking, gay, 

Glad in the fragrance, and glad in the dawn, 
And proud to be leading the day. 

The grey gnomes that live in the fog hear his 
pipes, 

And they hide in their thick weeping veils, 
And they dwindle and melt at the sound of his 
mirth, 

When his cloven hoofs dance in the dales. 

Now the King of the Day has awakened at last, 
And has climbed to his throne in the sky, 


[ 35 ] 


And the world is astir in its workaday tasks . . 

But Pan has gone merrily by. 

Now a child who lives in the village lane 

Hears the reed notes and tries to pursue; 

Fast he leaps over rocks on the heath on his 
way . . . 

All of a sudden the piping is near . . . 

Now it's lost to him . . . again, it is here . . . 

For sudden Pan comes . . . e’er you grasp for 
his cheer, 

Sudden he’s sung, and away. 

Away from the heart of everyday folk 

To the hills where the west wind blows; 

Laughing and dancing and chasing the bees. . 

(How dreary for them just to hum in their 
hives!) 

When the brown brook is gurgling, and sings 
as it flows, 

And the blood-red poppy smiles as it blows. . . 

Over the hills, and away . . . 

Smiles that Pan comes . . . e’er you see him, 
he goes . . . 

Sudden he’s sung, and away. 


[ 36 ] 


AN INTERVIEW WITH 
RICHARD THE LION-HEARTED 


“I don't like women/' said Richard of Brook¬ 
line, and to prove it he sucked more violently 
upon a lavender lollipop. 

Richard spoke with all the authority of one 
who has spent seven years living across the 
street from five fair ladies. One might men¬ 
tion that these seven years were his first spent 
anywhere, and that these fair but fearsome 
feminists ranged from six to sixteen. The 
locale was Brookline, and the time romantic 
summer—at this point my story begins. 

Not long ago Richard wandered down the 
broad highway sucking upon his solitary lolli¬ 
pop, and wearing on his eyebrows the air of a 
world-weary capitalist. He did not offer to 
share his bounty with the ladies across the 
way, but did not object to having them watch 
him from their lollipopless porch. It was this 
haughty attitude that first made the Sleuth 
suspect him to be a woman hater. 

And so the Sleuth set off upon his trail im¬ 
mediately, but Richard, like many a courtly 
gentleman, proved to be as diffident as he was 
bold. 


[ 37 ] 


“Why don't you like women?" he was asked. 
And he replied: 

“Because." 

“Because what?" the Sleuth persisted; 
whereupon Richard raised his eyebrows with 
an air of finality. 

“Because I don't," he said. 

“Don’t you like your Mama?" he was asked, 
and regarded the questioner scornfully. 

“She isn't a girl," quoth he. 

“But she probably was once!" The Sleuth 
hazarded a guess. 

Alas, at this point Richard was called to bed. 
But the next day the argument was continued. 
It was after a nerve-racking game of puss-in- 
the-corner, when the assembled court had been 
astonished at the lion-hearted Richard’s chiv¬ 
alry. Twice had he surrendered his hard- 
earned corner to a fluffy little four-year-old 
blond. The Sleuth joshed him as man to man. 
But Richard smiled about it, and man-like 
waived present contingencies to speak glitter¬ 
ing generalities. 

“Girls," he said, “are like fish." But he omit¬ 
ted further details; and as he mused on the 
matter, his thoughts fell into metaphors. 


[ 38 ] 


“Like fish/’ he repeated solemnly. And then 
he spied a crop of bobbed and almost masculine 
hair that was bouncing outside the hedge 
fence. “Or like hares. Some say that they are 
chickens, but I think that they are more like 
trees.” 

“Because they wear fine feathers,” someone 
contributed. 

“Certainly,” he agreed. 

“But you don’t think they’re all shady, do 
you?” the Sleuth hastened to interpose. 

“Most are,” he sighed. 

And at this point he rose, to show that the 
interview was at an end, and, swinging his tin 
drum about his neck, he solemnly paraded 
down the block to that very masculine tune 
“Johnny get your Gun.” 


DAUGHTER-GOOSE RHYMES 


I 

Little Jack Horner 

Sat in a corner 

Busily writing checks . . . 

His partners grew lazy, 

His balance hazy, 

His creditors all became wrecks! 

II 

Flitter, flitter, little dime, 

You can stay here a long time. 

If I leave you as I oughter 
Pretty soon you’ll be a quarter! 

III 

Little Miss Millions 
Longed to have billions, 

And dreamed about trillions beside; 
But while she was sighing, 

Not working, just crying . . . 

Her bank account dwindled and died! 

Little Miss Penny 
Didn’t have any 


[ 40 ] 


Money at all, but she tried; 

And so she kept saving, 

And ardently slaving . . . 

And she owned a house when she died! 

IV 

Ride in a taxi, 

The Biltmore for lunch . . . 

Eat . . . for the music 
Will play while you munch. 

Eat all you want to, 

While large grows your dome . . . 
For after you’ve eaten 

You’ll have to walk home! 

V 

Old Mr. Croesus 

Was worried to pieces 

To pay for the monthly rent . . . 

For what with investments, 

And bonds and assessments, 

He found all his money had went! 

VI 


Ike and Mike 
(They look alike) 


[ 41 ] 


Began to work together . . . 

But Ike was sly, 

While Mike ran dry . . . 

So they struck stormy weather! 

VII 

Dickory, dickory, dock, 

The ticker reported the stock, 

Each bull a bear, 

Brokers, beware 
Dickory, dickory, dock! 

VIII 

“Hi diddle, diddle . . . ” 

“Hoorah, ich ga bibble” 

The pawn-brokers chortle in glee . . . 
The bankers all giggle to see the fun, 
And int’rest mounts high as can be! 

IX 

Sing a song of sixpence . . . 

A suitcase full of rye . . . 

But that is meant for millionaires . . . 
The rest of us go dry! 


[ 42 ] 


BEAUTY AND THE BEACH 


Once upon a time before Caesar had con¬ 
quered Britain, and therefore in the very early 
days indeed, there dwelt in southern England 
a princess named Talc. Her life was pam¬ 
pered and happy, just like the lives of all the 
princesses who lived a long time ago. Each 
day she sat by the edge of a pool of still green 
water, and allowed her handmaidens to comb 
her tresses (it was in the days, you see, when 
ladies wore tresses where most modern folk 
wear hair). 

“I am very beautiful,” she remarked casual¬ 
ly, glancing at herself in the pool, “but . . 

“Yes, indeed, Madam,” chorused the hand¬ 
maidens, who did not realize that she was 
about to say more. 

“Silence, wretches,” snapped the princess, 
squirting water at them with a lily white hand, 
and thereby mussing up her image in the pool. 
Then she continued in a low tragic tone: “I 
have a blemish, I tell you. My nose shines. 
Poets have written of brilliant eyes and gleam¬ 
ing teeth, but not one has mentioned a glitter¬ 
ing nose. Therefore I know that the perfect 
nose does not shine. My beauty is ruined. Ah 


[ 43 ] 


woe is me, ah woe is me!” An she bowed her 
head forward, sobbing so violently that she 
pulled the pigtails out of her handmaidens’ 
grasp. 

“No more,” she roared at them, as they 
started to reclaim the lost tresses. And then 
she sobbed as though her heart would break, 
“Oh my blemish, oh my nose, oh my nose, oh 
my blemish. Throw away your combs. I am 
going to tell the sea of my woe. I am going to 
walk along the cliffs. You may follow at a 
distance.” 

She sprang to her feet, and hurried to the 
cliffs. She looked at the sea roaring on the 
rocks below. 

“Oh sea,” she moaned in her grief, “what 
would you do if you had a nose and it was 
shiny?” 

As she was thus bewailing she stumbled and 
fell upon the smooth, soft, chalky cliffs. When 
she lifted herself up she found that her hands 
were covered with a white dust. 

“Arabella!” she called to her handmaiden, 
“bring me a bowl of water.” 

Talc looked into the glassy surface of the 
water. Lo and behold her nose no longer 


[ 44 ] 


shone, but was white with a thick opaque 
whiteness! 

“My beauty!” she exulted, “my beauty has 
returned! Arabella, you may get the comb 
and continue in the making of my royal pig¬ 
tails. Neither my nose nor my chin shines. 
I am truly beautiful.” And she rejoiced until 
the tears flowed down her face, making fur¬ 
rows in their whiteness. 

And thereafter each morning the princess 
and her handmaidens could be seen prostrate 
upon the cliff, solemnly rubbing their noses in 
its smooth dust. 


[ 45 ] 


SENSATIONS OF SWINBURNING 


I fly through the air . . . 

Ah where, tell me where 
Shall I land, when I drop? 

Shall I splash? Shall I flop? 

When I plunge in the sea . . . 

Will the waves cover me? 

Pause I here on the brink . . . 

Will I float? Will I sink 
Through the green, glassy waves . . . 
Through the myriad of deep . . . ? 
When I die, shall I sleep . . . 

In the murmuring sea caves? 

Pray, is life fair enough . . . ? 

Shall I plunge from the bluff 
Take the ultimate jump? 

And land there . . . 

. . . with a thump? 


[ 46 ] 


DAY DREAMS 


“We had a table cloth, as white as the paint 
on the wall beside my kitchen stove, when 
it was new, five years ago. Ice tinkled in the 
glasses, but I saw every glass cloud up to hide 
the ice, because it costs an awful lot these days: 
They brought the turkey in,—it must have 
weighed twelve pounds. Its brown breast was 
so fat it seemed about to burst. It sizzled. 
Um. Then came the cranberry, all red and 
clear and quivery from its mold. A pianola 
played all the time, and we danced on the swell 
white tiles up to the cashier’s desk. 

“I had on a picture hat, black velvet, trimmed 
with fur and cloth of gold, just like a movie star 
—that’s how I felt. Say, ain’t it queer, the 
things you dream about?” 

A half a loaf of bread lay awry on a crum¬ 
by and rumpled and mended table cloth where 
the breakfast dishes were stacked in crooked 
piles. The room was dark ... an oil stove in 
the corner made the hot air heavier. On the 
tubs, wrapped in towels, a tiny baby lay. The 
mother was speaking: and trying to wipe the 
wisps of hair out of her heavy eyes. She said: 
“Say, ain’t it queer the things you dream 
about?” 


[ 47 ] 


RAIN IN THE CITY AT NIGHT 


The streets are black. 

They shine. 

And every light, 

From lamp-post and from store, 
Makes a golden path 
Across the street. 

Drops of rain 
Spatter, 

And trickle down 

The glowing window panes. 

Red and yellow, 

With silver frosting. 

That's all that I can see 
In the windows. 


[ 48 ] 


CHRISTMAS 


Christmas doesn’t come on the twenty-fifth 
of December. It begins with the first cold, 
snappy day, when ladies, fur-coated, and with 
unaccustomed red noses patter down Broad¬ 
way. Tall fragrant pine trees, their branches 
roped in, are piled on the curbs. There are 
little stacks of very, very green stands, lean¬ 
ing against a box of rosy cheeked apples. De¬ 
livery boys bustle about, much more energeti¬ 
cally than ever before. In the windows cauli¬ 
flowers and half frozen beets cuddle in a bed 
of red crepe paper in an attempt to keep warm 
and cheerful. Next door the fish-man has 
garnished his wares with holly and eked a 
“Merry Christmas” on the frosty window 
pane. On the corner the Salvation Army girl 
stamps to keep warm and tinkles her little 
bell. 

And it’s not even December twenty-fourth! 


[ 49 ] 


A ROMANTIC ADVENTURE INTO 
RELIGION 


Once upon a time there 

Was a little 

Girl. 

And she never read the 
Bible, and when her fond parents 
Decided that she ought to be 
Religiously educated, she 
Rebelled, and on Sundays developed 
Colds—and so forth. 

But— 

When anyone mentioned 

Saul or 

Rachel or 

Anything, she felt 

Uncomfortable 

And blushed 

And giggled 

And tried to 

Change the subject, which 
She couldn’t always do. 

And everyone accused her of not 
“Having religion” 


Until she fully 
Believed it. 

Bye and bye 

When she grew older she 

Began to wonder 

What this religion 

That everybody thought so much about— 
That preachers preached about— 

That revivalists ranted about— 

Is. 

And when she asked 
People 

Some carefully stroked their beards 
And thoughtfully cleaned their spectacles 
And said:—“It is 

The divine life in the human soul” whatever 
That is. 

And some 
Sat up straight 
And promptly answered 
“The natural gratitude to God for creating us 
which makes us want to obey his com¬ 
mands, in return,” which 
Was clearer, but sounded too much like a 
Bargain. 


[ 51 ] 


And she asked some who had been 
Brought up on 
Catechisms and 
Things. 

And they 

Looked shocked at the 
Question. 

Perhaps because they 
Didn’t know. 

And there were many 
More answers 
But 

The girl thought 
That, as there 
Were so many and 
So many people had 
Bothered about it, 

It must be pretty 
Important and 
Useful. 

And so she looked 
Up in card indices and 
Read many 
Deep books 


[ 52 ] 


And had many 
Deep discussions 
And things. 

Finally she decided 
That 

Religion is a very 
Personal thing, 

And so 

There couldn't be a 
Single definition for 
Everyone. 

But as for herself, she 

Considered it 

One's idea of perfection, 

The attempt to live up to this idea as an ideal, 

And 

One's attitude toward the world in trying to 
do this. 

And as for the ways of “getting religion" 

She could not believe 
That this should be 
Thrust upon a poor defenseless 


[ 53 ] 


Babe, or that a mean advantage should be 

Taken of his 

Youth 

By his parents, in biasing his 
Later saner judgment by 
Prejudicing him in favor of certain 
Opinions that They 
Happened to have. 

She did not mean 

That one should not read the 

Bible, or obey general morals or 

Know who Rachel was or 

Be as uneducated, as 

She. She meant that one should be 

Left to oneself, 

When it comes to thinking out 
What his Motive in life, 

And 

Conception of perfection, and 

Explanation of the big whys of 

Life, and 

Things 

Like that 

Are. 


[ 54 ] 


For one must get an 
Understanding of such 
Things 

(If one is to have a real understanding of 
them) 

Either through 
Much theory, 

Or better, 

By the experience which only 
Living gives— 

If you get what I mean. 

But, 

Thought the girl, 

What is the use of 
Worrying 

About things like that 
Anyhow? 

And then she 
Realized how 

People always turn toward 
Religion 

When they are in 
Trouble; as the 
Religious revival in 
Europe now 


[ 55 ] 


Shows. 

And she realized the 
Comfort that they 
Get 

From it. 

And after all 

It is only natural that when 
Material things 
And means toward the real end 
Go wrong, 

And one feels blue, 

That one should try to 
Look ahead 
And beyond 
At the real goal, 

And get 
Cheered up, 

By the confirmation that there is a goal. 

And that is one use of 

Religion. 

And besides 
People 

Are apt to be too 
Materialistic, nowadays. 

And the very presence of ideals, 

Or recognition of their presence, 


[ 56 ] 


Will lead one 
Beyond 

Such narrowness 
And 

Such binding materialism, and so 
Will lead to 
Higher ideals— 

Hence 

Higher strivings— 

Hence 

A better world— 

Which is 
An asset in itself, 

If you get what I 
Mean. 

And this is the 
Real 

Use of religion. 

And with this off her mind she felt better. 


[ 57 ] 


SUNDAY 


A-top the palisades that touch the sky 

Where friendly elms flirt with each passing 
cloud, 

There let me lie—with Heaven for my 
shroud, 

With Nature live, and close to Nature die. 

I, too, would flirt with clouds that pass me by, 
Holding my head aloft, my spirit proud, 
Only by Nature's wrath shall I be cowed, 

Only by hand of Providence I die. 

For Art we live, since Art is Nature's toy, 
Fashioned each man in mold almost the 
same . . . 

Religion, Nation, Race . . . are things of 
name. 

Cast these aside—God’s playthings are for joy. 

Amongst the waves that vainly slap the shore, 

Please God, help me to carry on some more. 


[ 58 ] 


NEW YEAR’S DAY 


An evening dress in a window . . . 
Sheer, 

Crimson; 

An ostrich fan beside it . . . 

Soft 

Willowy. 

Outside the hard cold glass, 

A woman. 

Pale cheeked, 

Red nosed, 

Clutches a furless muff 

And pulls her frayed coat collar 

About her scrawny neck. 

Gentleman in a high hat, 

Tan gloves, 

Yellow cane, 

Fur coat. 

Buys spring flowers 
From a dirty-faced Greek. 

Confetti in long yellow streamers, 
Lying on the grey curbstone. 
Shivering children 
Rolling it up. 


[ 59 ] 


SILENCE 

You think the house is silent when you’re out? 

The ticking clock 
Obtrudes its measured beat, 

Slower than before. 

The windows knock. 

’Way down the hall I hear a creaking door. 

A tenseness in the air . . . 

Someone behind me. 

Frantically I try to think . . . 

Of other things . . . 

Of anything . . . 

“This is mere nonsense . . . 

Nonsense, 

Nonsense . . . 

The room is empty!” 

Hush . . . 

What was that noise out in the hall? 

That brushing sound. . . ? 

That creaking . . . ? 

Oh, how can you think 

The house is silent when I’m here alone? 


[ 60 ] 


BLUFFING 


So that was Russian Art—A blotch of red 
And yellow flames, and towers childishly 
Drawn in thick lines, and curved as though 
the walls 

Were falling in. Scores and scores of these 
Were crowded in a narrow frame, thick piled 
That left us stunned, amazed—we could not 
guess 

From the queer Russian signs and mumbled 
words 

What we were meant to think the show was 
for. 

But going out, we coughed importantly 
And then we said “Here’s a new tone in Art.” 

While inwardly we wondered what that 
meant. 


[ 61 ] 


THE DELICATESSEN SHOP 


You must have noticed, on a Sunday night, 
The line of husbands, forming on the right, . 
A bent old fogey, and a spatted fop 
Are rubbing shoulders in the crowded shop 
Where lurid signs proclaim a pale green tea 
Or shriek in praise of chicken fricassee. 

Furtively they take their places in line 
And meditate the where-withall to dine . . . 
Then whisper it quite deprecatingly, 

And steal away as humble as can be! 


[ 62 ] 


LISTENING IN. 

(Recess in a College Corridor) 

Footsteps paced down the hall—slow, med¬ 
itative footsteps, with long intervals between 
them. Then there was a swish of skirts, and 
little pattering taps on the hard marble. Then 
both footsteps stopped, and I heard a high 
treble tittering, and a deep long-drawn out, 
but kindly roar. There was a clatter as though 
books had fallen on the floor—another titter, 
and rather a bored basso sigh. A bell rang. 
The pattering and swishing recommenced and 
faded out of earshot. The steady, determined 
strides drew nearer and nearer—and by that 
time the second bell had rung—and the door 
was slowly opened. 


[ 63 ] 


MT. RIGA ROAD 


If I could draw— 

The country lies 
A beacon to my pointed pen, 

Enticing me to sketch again, 

Or paint the colored twilight skies. 

If I could play— 

Fd harmonize 

The babbling brooks in mossy glen 
Or sing the whispered words of men 
Or wordless songs in misty eyes. 

I wish that God had given to me 
Expression that real artists show . . . 
The power to understand and see, 
Uplifted by the will to know. 

Instead, I write my paltry stint, 
Which usually isn’t fit to print. 


[ 64 ] 


RAIN 


Here's the pool, close to the lake 
Where the humming rainbow flies 
Seek their prey with myriad eyes, 
Where the maple, touched with red, 
Bends across the dusty pool, 
Bathing in its welcome cool, 
Sunspots break the veil of leaves 
Like diluted drops of gold, 

Cloud the pool with dust-like mold. 

Now the sunspots fade away. 
Buzzing flies hum louder still, 
Tense the air hangs damp and chill, 
And the maple's glittering leaves 
Turn their silver-frosted backs 
To the wind. A pine-tree cracks. 
On its breast the first rain falls. 
Drops like pebbles sharply pelt, 
Widen to a ring, and melt. 


[ 65 ] 


GROWING PAINS 


When I was a rosy, wide-eyed child 
And the world was new to me 
I tried to explore it with searching eyes 
That knew no secrecy. 

And I came one day, in my wanderings, 

On a curtain of green and gold 
With the deepest colors reflected in 
Each mysterious fold. 

And I tried to break through it, and tried to 
go ’round 

To pluck at the colors that shone, 

But as I reached toward it, it vanished away. 
And I cried in the forest, alone. 

Seven years passed, e’er I saw it again, 

All proud in my new-found teens. . . 

But I passed by the gate with a haughty 
glance, 

And I scoffed at its beckoning greens. 

Seven years more, and I find it again, 

In my own private fairy wood. 

Its shimmering colors, and sun-flecked hues 
Call me, as naught else could. 


[ 66 ] 


The gates are translucent. There, tinted with 
rose, 

Is the sapphire blue of a cloudless day. . . 

And I know there are reaped the harvests of 
love, 

And I know there the children of happiness 
play. 

But I know that for me the gate is shut. . . 

And I feel that I trespass on hallowed ground, 

So I fix my eyes on the stones below, 

And I follow the lone path, homeward bound. 


[ 67 ] 


ADOLESCENCE 


Childlike still, we gaze at fleeting fairy 
thoughts, 

Childlike still, we cast pale shadows in the 
air— 

Civilized imaginations—weakling sparks 

That we've folded fast in words—and buried 
there. 

Look: A school of doves on silver-frosted 
wings 

Hold the sunshine for a moment as they fly, 

Toss a vagrant shaft of sunbeams in the air 

As they float across a shining turquoise sky. 

For a moment there's the glitter of their 
wings . . . 

Just a moment . . . then the sunbeam melts 
away 

And the happy brightness of the turquoise sky 

Has faded, like their silver wings, to grey. 


TO— 


Glorious love, if the passion were thine, 

To thee I would open my heart and myself; 
Yours is the spirit to whom Fd resign, 

Yours are the arms I would rest in, in sleep. 

Yours is the face I would look to for help, 
Yours are the hopes that would buoy me, un¬ 
til 

After our labors had won, or had failed, 
Yours are the thoughts that would guide me 
on still. 


FRAGMENT 

Glorious Virgin, thine the light . . . 

The spark-fire of maternal love . . . 
Of thine own self, hast thou made 
A Living God, thy Monument. 


[ 69 ] 


TO MARIE 


Such a dainty little miss 
Is Marie, 

Whom I love to pet and kiss. . . 

Sweet Marie! 

Auburn hair in sunny wave, 

Freckled face, now sad, now grave . . . 
Would you teach me to behave . . . 

Dear Marie? 

You’ve culled learning from deep books, 
Fair Marie, 

A Phi Beta. . . and such looks! 

Oh Marie! 

That you set my heart a-flutter, 

Not the wise words that you utter. . . 
It’s your charm that makes me stutter . . 
My Marie! 

But though lyrics I indite you, 

Fair Marie, 

Ardent love letters I write you, 

Still Marie, 

You prefer to let me pine, dear, 

Lonely hours have been mine, dear. 

Oh your art is superfine, dear, 

Dear Marie! 


[ 70 ] 


But I never give up hope, 

Of Marie, 

Liberally I hand soft soap 
To Marie. . . 

For I know when I grow older, 
And my beaux affairs grow bolder. 
By her tactics, I’ll be colder 
Than Marie! 


FREUDIANISMS 


Then the fish all turn into girls, and the 
shimmery tale of the goldfish-in-chief changes 
into dance slippers. Soon her voice begins to 
call to you. It grows louder and louder. At 
last you realized that she is saying— 

“Eight o’clock—time to get up!” 

You heave a sleepy sigh and look at the 
clock. It says “eight o’clock” but it is prob¬ 
ably fast. You turn over and try to remem¬ 
ber that dream about goldfish. Or was it 
girls? Girls or goldfish? Goldfish or girls? 
-They both begin with “g”. Queer, “g.” Stands 
for “goloshes” and “grapes” and “gloves” 
and— 

“Ten minutes past eight”. 

“All right” you drone dutifully. (But you 
know it isn’t all right). 

You turn on your back and stare at the ceil¬ 
ing. There is no use in getting up yet. You 
would spend so much time just dressing and 
undressing. Think of the hours people spend 
in clothing themselves. If all those minutes 
were laid end to end they would probably 
reach from their elbows to— 


[ 72 ] 


And then the door bell rings, and someone 
says something about mail. 

Mail! 

That’s different. 

In a minute you are up and rushing into the 
hall-way. 

"Mail!” 


[ 73 ] 


THE OLD MAN SPEAKS 


I dare not come to you with virile phrase 
To tell you to give heed to what I say: 
To live your life in age-instructed way, 
To light your dawn with sunset's fading rays. 

I dare not wish to live again my days. 

I, too, was careless when birds sang in 
May, 

I loved to wander on the primrose way, 
Untaught, I crashed through life's conflicting 
maze. 

Reverance, sanctity, and holy awe, 

Your body's kingdom, and your soul the 
king. 

These are the messages of God I bring, 
To keep your holiness without a flaw. 

God gave to you the priceless gift of youth, 
And I, unheeded, offer you mere truth. 


[ 74 ] 


BALLADE FOR MORALISTS 


Sing me a lilting, laughing song, 

Some spritely, springtime roundelay, 
That’s not too burdensome or long . . . 
That hasn’t got too much to say. 

O sing of goblin, elf or fay, 

And deck your verse with imagery 
Just this remember: Make it gay . . . 

O poet, do not preach to me! 

Weave me weird tales of old Hong Kong, 
Of China, or of far Cathay, 

With pig-tailed heroes, called Hoo Chong 
Who struggle in a tyrant’s sway. 

Be sure the setting of your lay 
(If it should end unpleasantly) 

Be very, very far away . . . 

O poet, do not preach to me! 

If to some antique, classic wrong 
Poetic tribute you would pay . . . 
Resound some martyr’s funeral gong . . . 
Awake the tears of yesterday . . . 


[ 75 ] 


I am not one to bid you nay, 
But this I beg you earnestly 
Don’t tack a moral to your lay . 
O poet, do not preach to me! 

L’envoi 

I only hope some poet may 

Read this, and act accordingly, 
Not tear into bits, and say: 

“O poet, do not preach to me!” 


[ 76 ] 


HEAVEN, AT LAST 

I staggered up the last step of the golden 
stairs and stood puffing and gasping. St. 
Peter came over to me and flapped his wings 
in my face. I noticed that the wings were all 
lettered—A.B.C.D.—I didn’t look further. 

“Your admittance ticket,” he growled, and 
gloatingly fingered his keys. The largest was 
square and shiny—a Phi Beta 4 Kappa Key. 

I pulled a crumpled sheet of 8^x11 paper 
from my pocket. St. Peter took it, slowly 
looked at it upside down, then sideways, then 
right side up. 

“Un-huh”, said St. Peter at last, with celes¬ 
tial vagueness, “Un-huh”, he repeated wisely. 

“May I . . . ” I whispered. 

St. Peter turned around slowly, showing me 
a great expanse of wing. 

“Close your eyes,” he said, “and pull out a 
feather, and while you are about it, take one 
for each of your little friends.” 

“I can’t see which one to choose, if I close 
my eyes,” I objected most knowingly. 

“It doesn’t make any difference which one 
you choose,” said St. Peter, “I only give them 
out as souvenirs. A feather doesn’t really 
help you to fly. It just gives you confidence. 
The rest is up to you.” 

[ 77 ] 


THE FUTURE 


Far in the depths of the dark green sea 
A forest of scrawny weeds 
Imprisons a giant and holds him fast, 

Twine themselves round his knotted hand 
And chain him down to their sunless land 
Where the waves rush raging past. 

His face is hard with deep’ning lines, 

And his eyes are glazed with slime, 

Yet, deep in his heart there grows a hope 
That he will be freed by time. 

He is the God of Things to Be, 

Chained to the floor of the thoughtless sea. 


[ 78 ] 






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